He was settling in for a day of NCAA basketball, brackets and a Sam Adams at his side, when his cell phone rang. It was the fake-o switchboard number that showed up on office calls, and he almost said fuck it-his days of worrying about work 24/7 were long gone. He had done that, and look what it had gotten him. Demoted, humiliated. Still, few work emergencies could be so severe that they would order him back from the mountains, a two-hour trip, so he decided to risk it.
“There’s something in the paper today,” Collins said without preamble. “Someone who used Youssef’s ATM card talked to a reporter. And the Howard County detectives all but verified it. Remember how cagey they were with us? Well, one of the things they were sitting on was some info about the card. Turns out it was used two more times after the initial withdrawal, even as Youssef’s car was heading up the interstate. We knew about the first withdrawal, which matched up with the E-ZPass-northbound car came through the lane at ten forty-five, it was used on Eastern Avenue at eleven-oh-five. So now they know the killer wasn’t the one who used the card, assuming the killer is the one who drove Youssef’s vehicle up 95 to the turnpike.”
“Interesting,” Jenkins said. He liked to be taciturn on the phone, holding his cards as close as any target would. Not because they had any reason to worry about what they said on the phone, just because Jenkins liked discipline for discipline’s sake, and he had taught Collins to do the same. It helped, thinking like the people you were targeting, aping their habits. “Should I come back today, face the music? They let me act as liaison on this because they thought the Howard County cops would be open with me, so I guess I’m in the shitter now.”
“Actually, they’re saying Gail is spitting nails about Howard County, but your name hasn’t come up.”
So Jenkins was so far down on the shit list he wasn’t even worth getting mad at. There were worse things than being invisible, although he couldn’t think of any just now. “Thanks. Who you like in Syracuse-GW?”
“Orangemen versus Colonials? Orangemen. Pussy names, I have to say.”
“Spoken like a true Poet.” Collins had played for the Dunbar Poets, a Baltimore powerhouse that had sent some big players to college and even the NBA.
Jenkins hung up, mourning the loss of what should have been a sweet, relaxed day. He could understand the cops fucking over Gail, but why had they withheld the ATM stuff from him, when all he’d ever done was smile and charm and do his aw-shuckswe’re-all-in-this-together routine? He hadn’t leaked anything. Howard County had let the E-ZPass stuff out, but maybe they had realigned the facts in their mind, decided Jenkins was to blame. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been scapegoated that way. Bastards. They were going to do him again. He just couldn’t win.
Not even in the brackets, as it turned out. By the end of the afternoon, Jenkins was already statistically eliminated from the NCAA pool, which he once ruled. He was losing his touch across the board.
Lloyd spent Saturday the way he normally did, roaming the neighborhood with Dub, looking for financial opportunities, as they liked to call them. He had been taken aback to learn that there was no money to be had from the newspaper. Maybe he should have gone to the cops after all. Cops paid for information. But no, he couldn’t risk that. Once the cops got him, they wouldn’t let him go until he gave them what they wanted, and he had nothing to give. Besides, he had gotten some good food out of it. He had told his story to the man and the lady from the newspaper over a huge meal in that crazy lady’s house, the scary blonde. They had let him have anything he wanted to eat, from anywhere, so he had ordered up a feast-subs and chicken boxes and pizzas, eating from it all as if it were just a big motherfucking buffet, not worrying about what would go wasted, then taking the leftovers away, along with the last two bags of cookies.
He had eaten and talked, talked and eaten, and almost come to enjoy it, the way those people hung on his every word. He was going to help solve a big-ass murder. He was almost inclined to brag on himself to Dub, but then he remembered: If the ATM card was linked to some murder, the murder was almost certainly linked to Bennie Tep, and Lloyd did not want to be crossways with any drug dealers. He’d have to keep it quiet. Still, he had a private thrill when he and Dub stopped in the Korean’s and he saw the front of the newspaper framed in the box on the corner. He leaned closer, reading a few lines, until Dub punched him and asked what he was doing, looking at the newspaper like some old-timer.
They walked across Patterson Park, the fields still muddy. The day was cold and bright, but it held the promise of spring. Lloyd liked spring. People seemed nicer in the days after the cold weather snapped, and it was easier to bum money from the tourists who flocked to downtown. If you got too close to the harbor proper, the cops or the purple people ran you off, but a block or two away, near the parking garages, was just as good. Yes, spring would be great this year, he promised himself. He’d get something going this spring.
Crow worked at the Point all day Saturday and into early Sunday, arriving home at 3:00 A.M. Restless, he prowled the house. Since going to work at her father’s bar, he had tried to keep to Tess’s more normal hours as much as possible, but he just couldn’t throw himself into bed upon coming home, especially when a band like the Wild Magnolias had played. His head still buzzed with the music, and he hummed a few bars of “Smoke My Peace Pipe.” He wished he could get out his own guitar and play, but that would be unfair to the slumbering household. Instead he went into the den, thinking to smoke himself into serenity, but the unicorn box was gone. Oh, Lloyd. Tess wouldn’t miss the dope. A little more law-and-order every year, she seldom smoked anymore and was nervous about Crow’s occasional indulgence. But the box was a recent gift from a little boy named Isaac Rubin, who had purchased it at the Metropolitan Museum of Art while on a pilgrimage to visit the location of his favorite book of all times, The Mixed-up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. Isaac had given the box to Tess for agreeing to speak to his class on Career Day. The loss of the box would kill Tess, who could be surprisingly sentimental about objects. Maybe Crow could go online, order her another one.
At 5:00 A.M., still wide awake, he heard the thud of the newspaper on the front steps, decided the Beacon-Light would be as good a soporific as dope. He settled in at the dining room table, reading Marcy’s story. He read the same words that everyone else had read in the bulldog edition, except for one key change. Now, in the home edition’s second paragraph, it said, “In a meeting arranged by private investigator Tess Monaghan, the source told Beacon-Light reporters…”
Shit. Crow skimmed the rest of the story. Lloyd was safe, as promised. Marcy and Feeney, covered by state shield laws, couldn’t be compelled to reveal his identity. Even if the feds decided to get involved, it would take months to play out. So they, too, were protected, if only in the short run.
But Tess wasn’t. Neither were Crow and Whitney, if it came to that. Citizens had no shield protection. But Tess was the only one whose name had been served up to the authorities, a fat, juicy target for what were probably some very angry people.
He let her sleep until seven-thirty, then woke her with breakfast. “What’s wrong?” she demanded the moment she saw the tray with fresh pastry and coffee purchased from Evergreen.
She was gone by eight, about an hour ahead of the Howard County detectives, as it turned out.